


imagine being loved by me

by Magepaw



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: Blood, Canonical Character Death, Corruption, Demonic Possession, Emotional Baggage, Family Issues, Hurt No Comfort, Insecurity, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Not A Fix-It, Pre-Canon, The Author Regrets Nothing, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 22:43:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21144431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magepaw/pseuds/Magepaw
Summary: Strong and bold and always radiant, Ephraim is the sun itself, and Lyon cannot bear to look away, even if it will blind him.





	imagine being loved by me

**Author's Note:**

> i saw it was [ephlyon week](https://ephlyonweek.tumblr.com/) and then my hand slipped, thanks sacred stones!!! love dropping my bs in the tags in this the year 2019 
> 
> \- title from [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pe0X5krc40M) which always makes me think of lyon/twins: "i try to talk refined for fear that you find out how i'm imagining you..."  
\- the original biology definitions are from britannica although i tweaked them to be sad plants  
\- this is all pre-canon so it's not technically route spoilers for either but also, waves hands,, things go down,,,  
\- whenever i open my FEH account, lyon tells me it's okay to cry, bc no one knows what you've gone through except you

* * *

_tropism: response or orientation of a plant or certain lower animals to a stimulus that acts with greater intensity from one direction than another. It may be achieved by active movement or by structural alteration. _

  * _phototropism_ _(response to light) – such as a plant moves throughout the day to face the sun, following its path across the sky; the sunflower in shade will turn its face upward in desperate search for light_

* * *

Father MacGregor instructed the three of them to read independently through the chapter's end before joining him in the gardens for a practical biology lesson. Lyon stalls on the passage, rereading the same words without quite processing them. His fingertips run over the page as though his touch will clarify the meaning where his gaze did not. On his left, Eirika diligently works her way through it, slow but steady. Lyon expected he would be done first, as studying was the one area he excelled in compared to the twins. And yet, he feels his own attention straying to his right, distracted.

With temptation so close to him, Lyon is weak. His eyes dart up, stealing a furtive glance.

Ephraim gazes out the window with a longing stare, chin cupped in his hand. His leg jiggles underneath the table, impatient, fidgeting with restless energy. His two greatest challenges are apparently the effort of holding still and reading books, and he is accomplishing neither. As the clouds shift, cool daylight filters through the windowpanes, washing Ephraim's handsome features in gentle hues of pastel, softening the tone of his mint leaf hair.

Lyon stares directly only when he knows Ephraim won't notice. Ephraim is meant to be in motion, not wasting away in the dusty imperial library, daydreaming of combat. This is a rare chance to commit every rugged edge to memory. Ephraim's lips are parted absently as he zones out, and Lyon dares to imagine how soft they would be. Ephraim would kiss like he spars, though, all force and aggression, overwhelming him, and oh, how desperately Lyon would melt into him for any touch at all.

Strong and bold and always radiant, Ephraim is the sun itself, and Lyon cannot bear to look away, even if it will blind him.

He thinks he can feel Eirika's sharp gaze on him, both knowing and pitying. Dark shame flares in him at being caught. His shoulders rise in defense, and he squirms awkwardly in his seat between the two of them, forcing himself to glare back at the text before him. He is disgustingly transparent. There is a tremble in his hands as he picks up his book and buries his face in the pages.

Eirika at least sees him creeping in Ephraim's shadow, pathetic creature that he is. The hopelessness of his situation is obvious even to himself. He is nothing in Ephraim's eyes, and all three of their royal futures will likely diverge into arranged marriages and heirs soon enough. Ephraim remains oblivious, longing for freedom.

* * *

  * _geotropism_ _(response to gravity) – differential growth in response to the pull of gravity, such as a buried seedling sending roots spilling downward and a stem growing upward, orienting up and down based on the forces that act upon it_

* * *

Lyon can't help himself. He doesn't know how to say no, not to Ephraim. The three of them skip studying to go into town, just for one afternoon of fun, and it is both terrifying and exhilarating. He has never disobeyed his father before. Disappointed, to be sure, and a failure by almost every measure, but Lyon would never dare to disregard a direct order. And yet here he is, somewhere he was never supposed to go without permission, meek and trembling but following all the same.

Ephraim's grip is strong, too strong to break away from, not that Lyon wants him to let go. Eirika's hand is a warm reassurance on his shoulder, and when the twins smile back at him, it is a sight both dazzling and divine. His weak heart skips so dizzily he thinks it might be breaking for them.

They make it back unnoticed, all whispers and giggles as they return to their seats. It is their little secret, the bright spot in his memories that he clings to in the years to come.

After the twins return to Renais, promising to return at some later date, Lyon aches for them in a way he did not know he was capable of. He is overwhelmed by all the life and laughter they brought to the cold halls of the castle he was raised in. He has never smiled so freely in his life.

The chill creeps back in without their presence to hold it at bay. He did not know the shape of his loneliness until he felt the temporary relief of their companionship, fleeting though it was. He stares bleakly at the private dining hall where he takes his meals with his family: one table setting instead of three. Lyon swallows back his bitterness that they, at least, will never dine alone – Ephraim and Eirika will always have each other for company.

Lyon dismisses the servants and sits anyway. He has little appetite, but forces himself to chew mechanically, because that is what is expected of him. He is ever the dutiful prince. He will redouble his research. He must use what little power he has to help this land and its people, no matter the toll it takes on his body. He will grow and catch up and become worthy. He has to be good enough to see them again. He has to be as good as Ephraim.

He finds himself weeping over his meal, silent tears spilling down his cheeks, dripping messily onto his plate. But for the sake of his failing health, Emperor Vigarde has retired early to his bedchambers again, and so there is no one to see Lyon cry.

* * *

  * _thigmotropism_ _(response to mechanical stimulation) – such as a plant reacts to touch, seeking or avoiding it; as vine tendrils curling around a branch, or sensitive roots pulling away from sharp rocks _

* * *

Along his shoulders, across his ribs, down the curve of his slender back, Lyon's pallid skin blossoms in petals of royal purple, indigo, and blood red. The flowers of his bruises bloom everywhere Ephraim struck him with the wooden pole during combat training with General Duessel. If one could even call such a pathetic show of resistance a match – Eirika puts up more of a fight than Lyon does, and Ephraim still dominates them both. Every mark on his frail body is further proof of Ephraim's irrefutable strength and Lyon's inferiority.

Lyon pulls his robes over his sore shoulders and retreats under the safety of his bedcovers where he doesn't have to see himself anymore. It will take a long time for the painful reminders to fade. He has never been one quick to recover, needing more rest than most, not like - well.

There is something _wrong_ in the way Lyon's jealous emotions tangle together, _wanting_ Ephraim but wanting to _be_ him just as badly. But the more Lyon tries to unravel the knot and make sense of it, the messier it all becomes. He groans in frustration, curling in on himself. The ugliness of the mood churns in his soft stomach, threatening to make him ill, but it compels him all the same.

Drifting half asleep and cocooned in the darkness of his blankets, he gives in to the harmless fantasy. His mind wanders to what it would look like at first – Ephraim's expression, disarmed at his feet. It wouldn't be lances, no, that was too unrealistic – swords, though. Lyon claims victory in this duel, foil leveled at Ephraim's throat. Lyon has never beaten him before, so no doubt he would be surprised. Ephraim would look downright offended, he imagines, painting some mixture of anger and shock in those riveting blue eyes.

Ephraim always hated losing. And Lyon would smile, which would frustrate Ephraim all the more. Ephraim would scowl and move to stand, no doubt to challenge him to a rematch – but Lyon would be quick to push the blunted sword forward, catching his throat, warning him to stay down. And never in reality, surely, but in his jealous little power fantasy, Ephraim _obeys_.

Lyon would catch the underside of Ephraim's chin on his sword and tip it up, force his head back, expose his throat. And Ephraim would do it, and Lyon would bring a hand down to caress his face, lean in, and whisper…

Lyon feels at once too hot and too cold, sick with envy and desire and worship and humiliation. It is too much, too wrong of him, too– Lyon gasps and shudders into his pillow, stroking himself off to the hopeless fantasy of strong, handsome, perfect Ephraim on his knees. Lyon is disgusted with himself once he is spent, a panting, shivering mess.

He will not be able to look Ephraim or Eirika in the eyes tomorrow, shame reddening his face at the thought. What a miserable wretch he is, not worthy of their pity or their kindness, and certainly not worthy of their trust.

* * *

  * _traumatotropism_ _(response to wound lesion) – the growth or bending of an organism as a reaction to injury, such as the roots of a plant growing in a direction opposite to where they are wounded_

* * *

Dagger in one hand. Bowl in the other. The steady drip, drip, drip of blood echoes through the catacombs.

Lyon's countenance is dreadfully pale from the many times they have conducted this ritual before. The dark bruises that hollow his eyes make his stare appear even more glassy and unfocused. But no matter how the black spots swim across his vision, he does not give in to the limits of this body. His mind must be strong. His blood is the conduit, his will shapes the magic. The other mages begin their chanting, and Lyon blinks dazedly, watching the prone form on the marble altar for any signs of change.

Father MacGregor was against their research from the start – it was heresy to use Grado's stone, he said, a strange light of fear in his rheumy old eyes – but the stone was safely split in twain now, sacred and demonic energy divorced at last, but balanced in perfect harmony. Didn't the church understand this was for the greater good? The ancient magics could be used for healing injuries and illnesses, predicting disasters, for all manner of benevolent purposes. Didn't they believe the miracle he wrought in Serafew? Could he not bring about the miracle that saved them all now?

Could he not restore a life taken too soon?

Lyon does not sway even as the bowl overflows, spattering red onto the white leather of his boots. He cut deeper than he meant to, his hand shaky from lack of sleep, but if Knoll noticed his clumsy handiwork, he did not stop him. This time. They had to be close, he knew it.

Knoll says something to him now, some toneless murmur of warning, but Lyon is beyond hearing it. His thoughts are a spiral folding endlessly in on itself. He is running out of time. The flow of time washes over the group of dark mages like waves in the ocean, spreading further and further out from where they stood on the shore. They have to master this ritual before it is too late.

Grado is collapsing, the very earth splitting open and swallowing her whole. The earthquake will destroy countless lives as well as devastate their farmland, leaving countless more to starve come winter. The horror of the future he's seen grips his heart in an icy clutch. He will do anything to save his country, but he is too weak to do it by himself. Lyon cannot be their emperor. He is nothing in the shadow of his father. He is nothing, nothing, nothing.

_You're too weak to complete this spell,_ the familiar voice whispers. _How like you, to have gotten this close and still failed. _

Yes, Lyon thinks bitterly. It is all he has ever wanted, he thinks – to be braver, to be stronger, to be able to do anything right. To help people in need, not to stand by uselessly wringing his hands. He just wants to be _good enough_–

_What an amusing plaything you'd be. So much despair.  
_

Lyon knows with dreadful clarity who is speaking through his conduit, and that his will must not be swayed. He is a necromancer, but not a fool. He shudders at the chill sweeping through his body – or has he lost too much blood this time, and his mind is conjuring the scene before him? It certainly feels detached from reality, as he stares blankly at the chamber of robed mages surrounding his father's unearthed corpse.

_If you were more like your precious Ephraim, you wouldn't need me, _the voice sneers, a cruel edge of amusement coloring the tone.

Lyon squirms, but there is no hiding the darkest corners of his heart from this scrutiny. His fingers twitch around the handle of the ceremonial dagger. It, at least, feels real, anchoring him to the present.

There is no use lying to the voice in his head. If Lyon was a _real_ man like Ephraim, he wouldn't be too much of a coward to take the throne. Ephraim could still stand proud and dignified if he lost his parents. Ephraim would face this terrible future and do something about it. Hell, Ephraim would find some impossible way to defeat it. But Lyon never measured up, did he? His father would be so disappointed even now.

Lyon's vision swims. His gut twists with a nauseating mixture of admiration and resentment, and the voice in his head chuckles. It sounds like broken glass. 

_You know I can bring Vigarde back if you let me. _

The ritual he designed is built to use the energy of the stones, not to be used himself. He can finish this spell on his own, he's certain. But the temptation to slip is right before his fingers, and he's never been good at resisting his curiosity. The two halves of the stone lay on the altar, their resonant energies so carefully balanced. If anything were to damage one, the other would be tipped into power. What would happen to the ritual if he...

_I can make you stronger than ever. I can make all your pitiful little dreams come true. You just have to do one thing for me.  
_

He feels wetness dripping down his chin, but he cannot be certain if it is a nosebleed or if he has begun to weep, or some overstimulated combination of both. Lyon tries to hold still, fighting against the spreading chill that is making him shiver uncontrollably. His teeth chatter. He feels so cold, so weak. Icy claws are sinking deeper into his heart. 

_We could even be better than Ephraim together. He's always looked down on you, the miserable insect beneath his boot. We can make him respect us, for once.  
_

The bowl slips from his numb fingers, smashing to pieces on the marble floor. The mages do not flinch, locked in place for the duration of the ritual, but Knoll beside him goes rigid. Lyon stares hungrily at the stones, hearing nothing but the thundering of his heartbeat.

He's going to fix everything. They're so close to resurrecting the true emperor, and, and – everything is going be alright if he can bring his father back. Grado will be saved. And yet...

_Don't you want to see the look on his face? _

"I do," Lyon whispers aloud, and smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> i've also written [eirilyon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19971349) if you haven't suffered enough :) or just yell at me on twitter @magepaw 


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